


The Shape of Things

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder knows Sylar is visiting him in the shape-shifted form of his friends</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shape of Things

_“So you can tell them I’m coming   
And Hell’s coming with me   
Hell’s coming with me.”_   
**-Matthew Good Band, **_**Suburbia**_

Mohinder should have known better.

Being privy to Sylar’s shape shifting ability had come from overhearing Bennet mention it in warning to Claire. Yet during all those various meetings with friends or professional acquaintances, even the occasional ‘strangers catching each other’s eyes,’ the small clues of distinguishable strangeness had not connected the dots in his mind.

Then again, maybe they had. After all, Mohinder is nowhere as dense as he can make it seem. There is a distinct advantage in having everyone underestimate him. That is until he has to confess the awful truth to himself.

Of course it has been Sylar in a myriad of facades all this time. Knowing that is one thing but going along with it for the most personal of reasons is difficult for Mohinder to admit to anyone, least of all himself. He feels handcuffed by the unfinished phrase, ‘should have,’ and its suggestion of a definitive answer. If life were that clear cut he would not be in this predicament.

It is inexplicable really, at least to any rational mind, but talking with Sylar again, no matter the exigent circumstances that dictate the form he chooses to reside in, takes Mohinder back to their days in the car when Sylar wore a fake name but his real face. Their conversations are as comfortable this latest time around and despite knowing that there must be some dark manipulative motive behind Sylar’s decision to seek him out in so many different ways, Mohinder is not (yet) angry.

He is reasonably certain Sylar does not know his various covers have been blown and he takes pleasure in secretly having the upper hand. It settles a parcel of power in his corner that he clutches at desperately in a bid to feel less lost and spinning out of control. That fact does not disturb him. What does is the level of desired conversation that he has only found with Sylar and that _that _connection stokes a fire within that has never gone out since it was first lit.

What does it say about a man if he is willing to overlook horrific acts for selfish personal gain?

Mohinder does not know if he wants to hear the answer.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ********** **

 

“Well I see you’ve gone all out with the accommodations,” Bennet says dripping sarcasm from his tongue.

Mohinder looks up from the open file he is holding and eyes him standing just inside the motel room, closing the door behind him. They had met up an hour earlier at the diner next door to talk about Angela Petrelli’s plans and latest reconnaissance work before moving their meeting to the privacy of the room Mohinder had booked for the night. Tomorrow they would go their separate ways again.

Bennet tilts his head forward and peers up at Mohinder in a manner befitting a teacher disappointed with his student.

Mohinder rolls his eyes and looks down at the folder in his hand, saying, “Trying to remain under the radar means drawing as little attention as possible.”

“Under the radar, not fleabag infested.” Bennet takes a few tentative steps into the room while casting a distasteful eye to the carpet, beds and walls.

Mohinder drops his shoulders and huffs annoyance at the lack of professional focus from Bennet. Tossing the folder to the bed he is about to snap about priorities when Bennet cuts him off with a raised left arm.

“You’ll learn that being covert is not about settling in the underbelly of the world as it is about becoming invisible out in the open.” Bennet stares at the wall to his right and thrusts his hands into this pant pockets, pushing the sides of his suit jacket behind him. Taking a deep breath, wrinkling up his nose, he flits his eyes to Mohinder then turns directly towards him. “Hiding in plain sight, Suresh.”

“Much appreciation for the lesson.” Mohinder rakes his right hand through his hair and purses his lips, looking at the file on the bed. He is tired yet knows he will be lucky to get two hours of uninterrupted sleep. Listening to Bennet school him in the art of being a secret agent is the last thing he needs. Truthfully it would not be so painful if Bennet did not take such a distinct pleasure in lording his expertise like a loaded weapon.

Mohinder sits on the edge of the bed and watches Bennet cock an eyebrow, turning up an amused half smile at him. Feeling all the more like a chastised child, Mohinder tenses his jaw and fists his hands at his side, pressing them against the mattress.

“This is just for tonight,” Mohinder says. “Surely you can survive that, being the consummate professional that you are.”

Bennet moves in front of him and half sits on the edge of the dresser across from him. He gently removes his glasses with both hands and stares at them in his lap while thoughtfully saying, “I can appreciate the effort you’re trying to make.”

He looks up to meets Mohinder’s gaze as he folds the earpieces in. “But Sylar could be anywhere, doing anything. He could be watching us and putting more emphasis on lodging instead of tactical maneuvering against him is a mistake we can’t afford to make.”

The truth of what Bennet is saying stops the words normally ready to fire from their position on the tip of Mohinder’s tongue. “I know.” Mohinder nods his head slightly. “You’re right. I…”

He raises his hands to his lap, fingers uncurled and palms up as he searches for the right words. “It’s difficult to know what to do. I’m not exactly experienced with this sort of thing.”

Bennet nods his understanding as if all too aware of the discrepancy in their personal experiences with this sort of lifestyle. He palms his glasses and presses the index finger of his right hand to the bridge of his nose, pressing a split second then pinching it in a show of relieving the ache of his skin.

A show.

Mohinder does not blink, literally or figuratively. He has seen that gesture before, on Zane, no less, who wore no glasses and thus had nothing on which to place the blame. At the time Mohinder categorized it as a nervous gesture or a hold over from once wearing specials. Only later, after confessions rattled the apartment walls and Mohinder poured over piles of Chandra’s old notes had he realized the move was instinctively Gabriel’s, used to the thick black-rimmed glasses that framed his eyes.

The gesture is the only major give away to Sylar’s impersonation of Bennet, and even then it is not a terrible mistake. Mohinder only notices it because he has been mentally filing notes on everyone around him, a practice gone into overdrive once he heard Sylar could shape shift. He knew he needed to be able to recognize any and all telltales signs of Sylar’s infiltration, without leaving around evidence of his personally motivated defensive pursuits.

“You’re holding up, Suresh,” Bennet admits and Mohinder tries to read between the lines for Sylar’s true meaning. “Better than you may think.”

Bennet—Sylar—unfolds the earpieces and places the glasses back on his face. “You need to understand that I know more than you when it comes people like Danko. You’re going to have to learn to trust me.”

“Easier said than done,” Mohinder mutters and scoffs at the knowledge that the sentiment could be applied to both Bennet _and_ Sylar.

“Be that as it may,” Bennet stands up and stares down, holding Mohinder’s attention with a focused and challenging gaze.” You’d do best to get used to it or pretend to.”

Sylar’s version of Bennet is overly emphatic about looking down his nose at Mohinder, physically and intellectually. Given Bennet’s normal disposition with Mohinder the action does not raise the red flag each time. Bennet has always suffered from the belief he knows everything. Then again so has Sylar. It makes the impersonation all the more ironic.

Mohinder moves to his feet, bringing himself into Bennet’s space, his right shoulder square against Bennet’s. “Be that as it may, it’s not going to happen overnight,” Mohinder says and pushes past him, heading to the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

Mohinder turns the grungy taps at the sink, letting the water run, then presses his ear against the door and listens. He hears nothing on the other side and is suddenly struck by the image of Sylar pressed up against the other side of the door listening back. Taking a step back Mohinder, keeping the palms of both hands against the door, looks at the bottom of the door for any sign of a shadow cutting across from the other side, but there is nothing.

Mohinder turns his back to the door and sighs. Sylar as Bennet means he will have to be extremely guarded. Sylar only takes this form when he is in the mood for a challenge, caught up in operations of the Resistance more so than any personal vendettas. Mohinder will have to watch what he says, being careful to not reveal too much by way of tactical planning.

It is going to be a very long night.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ********** **

 

Unfortunately, Mohinder can count on one hand the number of women, or more accurately females, who have seen the inside of his apartment since making New York his permanent, or at least second, home.

Eden, Molly, Maya, Daphne (although she was there for Matt), and now Claire. He removes the teabags from the mugs and places them on a side plate on the kitchen counter to dispose of later. Picking up the mugs he turns around and meets Claire’s cautious gaze by way of slightly narrowed eyes as she stands at the far side of the kitchen table and presses her index finger of her left hand nervously against the top rung of the chair’s back.

Mohinder offers her a muffled smile and nods to the table. He waits until she is seated then places her drink in front of her before sitting down. “Milk? Sugar?” he remembers to ask.

“I’m fine,” she says quietly and cups the mug between her hands.

Mohinder begins to tell her it is not a problem but instead raises his mug in his left hand and takes a small sip. She looks guarded, understandably since her father (in this case Nathan) has disappeared without a word to anyone. For her to be here with someone she barely knows beyond Peter claiming him to be a friend (the same friend who shot her other father) is a testament to the precariousness of the situation.

And Sylar is playing it almost pitch perfect.

The subtle difference in Sylar’s version of Claire is that he characterizes her as being more of a believer in Mohinder’s strength to overcome adversity than Mohinder knows she really is. It is not that she is indifferent to the challenges he has faced or is coldly unmoved by his being stuck between a rock and a hard place, but that her interest is coloured by how it immediately applies to herself and those she holds dear.

The more abstract and debatable theories of his research do not concern her, but as always they fascinate Sylar. Mohinder is intrigued with the way Sylar uses Claire to encourage the dismantling of his defensive walls. He is certain that Sylar is not so superficial as to believe that the attention of a young woman would reduce Mohinder to putty. Sylar is more calculated with his intentions. Rather, Mohinder supposes that Claire is someone whose life has been turned upside down, as much at the mercy of both Nathan and Bennet’s decisions. Wanting to do the right thing but skeptical, her defiance has also gotten the better of her. It sounds not too far removed from Mohinder’s own life.

With that in mind Mohinder has to play caring, responsive and embarrassed for his past transgressions in a way that she will be familiar with.

“You haven’t heard from Peter yet?” he asks, resting his drink on the table.

“No,” Claire says with a curt smile and inquisitively eyes her drink. Mohinder censors a laugh at the thought of Sylar double guessing whether the tea is drugged or not.

“He can’t track Nathan down.” She settles on taking a small sip, pondering the aftertaste, and refocuses on Mohinder. “Or he found him and they’re off doing whatever they do.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Mohinder says. “They’ve both proven to be quite resourceful. I imagine if we heard from them it would actually be bad news.”

Claire rolls her eyes to the side, the image of petulance. “I’d rather know where they are.”

“You know, Claire, you may be of better use to them where you are right now—ready to go when they need you.”

“Why does everyone act like I’m breakable? I can take care of myself. God knows how many times I’ve already had to do it.” She stares at her mug and pulls it towards her, muttering, “I could do a better job than you.”

The intonation is perfect, her body language both protectively insular and stubbornly defiant, that Mohinder blushes at the honesty of the insult. Claire glances up at him and he is unable to hold her gaze.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, bashfully.

He shakes his head and takes a sip.

“I…was wondering…” she begins slowly.

Mohinder returns her questioning stare. “Yes?”

“My dad said that the serum you made could give people abilities.”

“…yes.”

Claire pushes her mug forward and sits back in her chair, clasping her hands together in front of her on the table. “If someone who already had pow—an ability was injected, would it make the power they had stronger or give them another one?”

Wrinkling his brow, Mohinder considers the question and its implications. “I’m not sure. I never had the opportunity to test that theory out. Most likely for the best.”

“How could it be for the best to not know?” Claire demands. “Any advantage would have to help us.”

“And the consequences could be just as dire,” Mohinder argues. He leans forward and rests his forearms on the table. “Believe me, good intentions are just that—intentions. They are not guarantees.”

“So you don’t bother to try?” Claire exclaims and curls her lip in disgust. “You just hope doing nothing will be the right answer? Do you know the difference you could make? You’ve already done more than most. Almost changed the world. Why stop? We should be doing everything we can.”

It is a passionate plea, very much in Claire’s nature, but the fact that it is Sylar speaking the words has Mohinder wondering what the real angle is. “I didn’t say to do nothing. But sometimes there are less risky ways to achieve the same goal.”

“Well that sounds like a plan,” is Claire’s sarcastic response complete with a pout. She looks over to the living room and takes a deep breath. “I know you’re all about trying to do the right thing, it’s just…it would be so much easier if we had a way to find Peter instead of sitting around. If we could just find him without…”

_Using Molly_, Mohinder silently finishes her sentence. _Of course. Avoid the mad science talk by bringing Molly out of protective hiding and risk her life or spare her and inject Claire—Sylar—with the serum as a power booster.   
_  
“That’s part of the problem.” Mohinder sits back and fingers the lip of his mug trying to play it cool. “There’s no guarantee that an injection would give another power, and if it did we have no way of knowing which power. It could be something as innocuous as super hearing.”

Claire quirks an eyebrow. “Not a big help, then?” she asks after a brief pause, with a small smile meant to convey sheepishness at not thinking her position through.

“Nothing I can think of,” Mohinder teases behind a flat voice as two images of Dale, one where she is alive yet cautious and the other with the top of her head sliced off, flash in his mind. He watches Claire raise her drink and, distractedly, take a sip, her gaze off to the side. Sylar is recalculating. It is well known that he coveted Molly’s tracking ability to make the multitude of Specials around the world a more delectable and attainable feast. Packing Molly off into hiding was done with Sylar very much in mind and Mohinder is steadfast he will not fail the girl now. But this is the first time Sylar has broached the subject of attempting to give himself Molly’s power without physically needing her.

To Mohinder, Sylar is either being more flexible in his approach or increasingly desperate for an ability that has eluded him for so long. He will have to try harder and Mohinder knows he will need to be better prepared to handle the new angle.

Claire meets his gaze and gives him a closed mouth smile.

Mohinder tells himself not to glare. Instead he smiles back.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** **********   
**

Sylar’s displeasure with Matt is obvious in the way he chooses to play the man. Mohinder likens it to one half jealousy for the incredible weapon Matt’s ability can be turned into and one half plain and simple dislike.

There is a hint of oafishness in Sylar’s act that is unfair to the man he pretends to imitate. It is not blatantly rude or attention seeking but subtly disrespectful. Mohinder holds his tongue to keep from making a harsh crack about the caricature he detects. As strange as it sounds Matt is his friend and Mohinder believes he deserves the best effort Sylar can muster, not the immature half-hearted attempt he is getting.

Even though the negative portrayal can be written off as Matt having an off day or revealing a quirk it is still bothersome to Mohinder. More troubling is that the impersonation does not take into account the darker turn that Matt has taken in the last year. His ability to read minds does not stop him from having thoughtless reactions to difficult situations from which he needs to be talked down. For his kindness and nearly obsessive want to make good things happen, he can be reactively volcanic and unforgiving when that ideal is challenged. Increasingly Mohinder has had to walk a fine line with him.

What is that saying? When things are good they are very, very good, but when they are bad they are horrid.

The one upside, if there is one, with Sylar’s take on Matt is that it does not have the same bite. Sylar can look the part and superficially play it, but he cannot control minds or read them. This fortunate fact allows Mohinder some leeway while Sylar simultaneously plays it as if Matt is respecting Mohinder’s boundary issues.

If Matt knew that Sylar was pretending to be him he would certainly go all Nightmare Man full throttle, a more reckless version of his father (and how many of Mohinder’s friends suffer from father complexes?). In theory it sounds the least of what Sylar deserves, but Mohinder is all too familiar with how consuming and dangerous the power could be if wielded with anger. It is too risky a chance to take so Mohinder keeps it to himself.

Besides he cannot help but take a small measurable ounce of comfort in Matt’s newly calmed countenance now that he is reconnecting with his infant son. With the bulk of Matt’s energies focused on the one truly positive thing in his life, Mohinder has no intention of crashing through it. Not unless there is an absolute “must ruin Matt’s life” reason. Until then, Mohinder conveys restrained decency with Matt and cautious acceptance with Sylar.

It works in Mohinder’s favour (and potentially Sylar’s) that he and Matt, although friends, are not very close. Yes they had worked together to help Molly but that was an act of convenience and protection more than a true bond between like minds. It means that Mohinder and Sylar never delve into anything too deeply personal, mostly top surface stories with an occasional outburst.

During their meetings, lately at the corner coffee shop, Mohinder observes the nuances that Sylar _does_ manage to get right. The gestures, from anything as simple as Matt leaning forward on the table and angling his hands up, excitedly moving them in conjunction with his bright smile as he talks about his son, to the slightly more complex way Matt takes two sips of his coffee before removing the lid and adding one pack of sugar, are ones Mohinder did not realize he associated specifically with Matt until he put it together that Sylar had added that portrayal to his repertoire.

Even at Sylar’s worst the effort he puts into knowing how his selected victims works down to the smallest detail is admirable. Seeing someone being devoted to what he practices is impressive. It means there is purpose in the challenge and unique human fingerprints that trail every footstep. Speech patterns, stride lengths, inflections of voice, daily body language as it shifts from morning to afternoon to night—Sylar differentiates with each person as if they are as unique as he believes himself to be. It is an odd admission for Sylar to make and though he never says it out loud (careful not to break the constructed illusion), Mohinder recognizes it all the same.

The ruse can be so convincing, or better yet very much something Mohinder wishes would be true, that Mohinder has to remain adamantly conscious of not slipping up, either to ridicule Sylar or to commend him. It is a nod to Sylar’s achievements and Mohinder’s will power. Secretly he wonders if Sylar is testing him, needling him to the breaking point and admiring Mohinder’s refusal to succumb.

That Mohinder even considers that makes him question his own priorities and state of mind. Why does he want a killer who has set about destroying a multitude of lives to admire him? To consider him worthy? What can possibly come of that? Where does that morally questionable want first find itself rooted?

Whenever that distraction raises its ugly head Mohinder instinctively begins looking for the mistakes. Those are fewer but instead of being frustrated, Mohinder revels in the challenge. Kept on his toes, attentive and charged, Mohinder returns the manipulations Sylar thoughtfully doles out. Pretending not to notice turns out to be tougher than he imagined.

He has to play up his confusion (which isn’t always a stretch) and naivety. He has to laugh at sarcastic jokes that are amusing but lack the intellectual wit he prefers and he has to be careful to not answer Matt’s questions about his research with detailed responses better suited to Sylar. Matt is a layman’s terms type of man.

Keeping the personas separate has become a fact of life. Mohinder feels like he is losing the bond with his friends to the unfair compromise demanded of him in the name of survival.

Or maybe he is reestablishing the closest one.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** **********   
**

The most personal deception that Sylar perpetrates is in the form of Peter. The friendship between Peter and Mohinder is one that has grown steadily over time. There are those who would think their troubled beginnings, filled with disbelief and yearning more than proof, would be a difficult barrier to penetrate, but the opposite has been true. It was that shared confusion and hopeful skepticism, that belief that somewhere out there lay the future that was meant to be lived, that glued them together.

What began as ability oriented discussions, ranging from the different manifestations to the underground political handlings putting them all at risk, over time became less professional and more personal. Then it was childhood stories and adolescent mishaps, travel experiences and the wonder of unexpected accomplishments. One hour for coffee turned into impromptu dinners and a movie, which eventually became almost set in stone lunches and dinners a few times a week. Peter took Mohinder around New York to see the city through the eyes of real inhabitants, not a drive-by-tourist. It was the friendship they were always meant to have.

Their closeness has never been something they have been shy about. Rather Mohinder is grateful. He has known loneliness all too well, surrounded by acquaintance but no real confidantes. Peter’s compassion, the way he makes Mohinder laugh with a bad joke followed by a lopsided grin, his perseverance to keep trying to do the right thing, all give Mohinder pause to appreciate the way rare connections find a way to form.

When Sylar is Peter the friendly touches hint of something more. A goodbye hug lasts a few seconds longer with Peter turning his face towards Mohinder and ‘innocently’ grazing his neck before stepping back. He leans into Mohinder’s space more and when he walks around the apartment he traces his fingers along the shelves and counters as if trying to mark his scent throughout the place.

While the genuine Peter follows Mohinder with a welcoming wide-eyed gaze or narrowed eyes detailing his frustration with Nathan or Angela, Sylar’s version of the younger Petrelli has him staring at Mohinder’s movements like he is tracking him, smoothly and with unfettered intent. A raised eyebrow condescends amusement and in the guise of Peter it turns Mohinder’s stomach.

Mohinder considers that Sylar is trying to achieve two things: he is trying to make Mohinder uncomfortable, throwing him off balance to make him vulnerable. The other option is that Sylar is curious whether there is more to Mohinder and Peter’s friendship. An educated guess based on past confrontations tells Mohinder that Sylar is not only not a fan of Peter’s (for the personal hate of shared similarity instead of unrivalled uniqueness) but also not happy with the fact that Mohinder and Peter are close—close in the way that maybe Sylar would have been with Mohinder were it not for the choices made that turned him into the boogieman. Close in the way that a few days in a car with the illusion of Zane made a legitimate argument for briefly stopping the roller coaster life he was leading.

If it is possible that Sylar senses a similar tie between Peter and Mohinder but wants definitive proof then what he is doing is hypothesizing and experimenting.

Then again, there is the third possibility. As Peter, Sylar can get close to Mohinder, closer than either would allow or admit otherwise, without the suffocating baggage of the unforgivable. In those hours of pretend they have a second chance and though Mohinder is guarded, he is not as cautious as he should be. After all, of the few people who have altered his life, two have cracked through his scarred and mending broken soul. Sylar as Peter is both men in one form and it is as unsettling as it is intoxicatingly fascinating.

Which is precisely the feeling pressing on Mohinder’s joints and flexible personal space as Peter (too friendly, too leading with his side of the conversation) closes the lid of the pizza box that rests on the floor between them and slides it forward a few feet. Mohinder, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles on the floor, presses his back against the wall and peeks at Peter with a sideways glance.

This new lab has become a home of sorts for Mohinder. With the old one off limits due to Danko’s persistence, Peter had gotten Angela to pull strings with the university to allow Mohinder to use one of the labs during off hours. His work was slow but progress was being made, a fact that kept Angela in his corner for the time being. Peter visited regularly to keep him company but before tonight it had been a week since they had last spoken. Peter had gone off on some ‘top secret’ mission with Bennet and life for Mohinder had retreated into a relatively quiet existence.

Then tonight Peter had shown up with a pizza to “make up for lost time” and they had ended up sitting on the floor like university chums pulling an all-nighter. It was fairly innocent until Mohinder noticed the long looks, heard the reaching questions and felt—

Peter shifts closer to him on the right so that they are shoulder-to-shoulder. Mohinder bows his head and smiles to himself, biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from saying something that would obviously reveal his knowledge that it is Sylar, at least until he is ready. At the moment he feels too vulnerable. If he is lucky Sylar will mistake the sudden spike in his heart rate (which he is trying to calm down with thoughts of India) with unspoken feelings for Peter. When Mohinder leans back and rests his head against the wall he looks over at Peter and catches a quick quizzical expression before it is supplanted by a fake and placating smile right before Peter drops his gaze to his own lap, the lines across his forehead detailing the questions certainly forming in Sylar’s brain.

“I was worried about you,” Mohinder says and waits for Peter to look at him, confused. “Bennet’s not always the most protective partner to be with and you’re now limited with…”

“It was pretty much what you see is what you get.” Peter shrugs his shoulders. “I can put up a better fight than I used to.”

“Was it worth the risk?” Mohinder is only half sure why he asks the question and if it is as straightforward as it deceptively sounds. He does not break away from Peter’s searching eyes, steady and narrowed at first then relaxed atop of a semi-grin.

“You want to see it?”

Now that peaks Mohinder’s interest. If Sylar uses this power then he can’t use another one, not without admitting he is using Peter’s form. But Mohinder can see it in his eyes that he wants to show off some new ability and pass it off as the latest one Peter is stuck with.

“Absolutely,” Mohinder says.

“Give me your hand.”

“What?”

“Your hand. Give it to me.”

“Why?”

“So you can feel what it’s like to use it.”

The request and explanation are unexpected and Mohinder thinks that maybe Sylar is calling him out, as usual, to see how far he will go to maintain this deception. Refusing to show weakness, Mohinder lifts his right hand and Peter slips his left one under and round to clasp their hands together. Mohinder tries not to flinch and resist as Peter forces their fingers to intertwine. He gazes upon the mutation created of angled and curved flesh and bone and is at once repulsed and certain that nothing has ever made more sense.

Peter extends his index finger and Mohinder follows his lead, their clasped hands looking like a gun. Mohinder senses Peter turn his face toward him and asks, “What do you want to see?”

Mohinder wrinkles his brow and asks, “What?” as he stares at Peter, slightly caught off guard by how close they are.

“What do you want to see, Mohinder?”

It is a simple enough question but Mohinder feels backed into a corner, caught by Peter’s—no, _Sylar’s_—stare.

“I—uh—microscope?”

Peter laughs. “You can do better than that.”

Mohinder flushes and looks ahead at the lab. He cannot concentrate beyond the hand holding his and fights to think about something, anything. Out of nowhere he recollects a moment from a highway pit stop that he had thought long forgotten and filed away. To remember it now is a cruel body check by his brain.

“Slushie,” he says quietly.

He senses Peter pause then raise their hands and aim at the wall across from them. An indescribable pulsation echoes through their hands and then there is a slushie on the floor across from them.

Shocked, Mohinder gasps, “How did—is that real?”

“Real enough,” Peter chuckles. “It’s kind of like a hologram.”

“A weapon of mass distraction,” Mohinder quips, still in awe, and glances at Peter.

“Exactly,” Peter replies seemingly impressed by the truth of the remark. Neither looks away and Peter eventually leans towards him with one eyebrow raised and quietly says, “I could even change your eye colour.”

Mohinder’s breath catches and without warning, as his mouth foregoes listening to his brain, says, “Show me your real form.”

Peter furrows his brow and pulls back, eyeing Mohinder carefully. “What are you talking about?”

With caution and politeness at the wayside, Mohinder resigns himself to pushing forward. “Aren’t you tired of the games, _Sylar_?”

Peter’s grip tightens painfully and Mohinder stifles a grimace.

“Show yourself.”

Peter narrows his eyes into a penetrating glare and clenches his teeth. When he curls his mouth into a smirk Mohinder shudders. His hand is dropped and Peter is on his feet walking towards the door, kicking the pizza box out of the way, the hologram disappearing. Mohinder scrambles to his feet, ready to hurl insults of cowardice, when he notices Peter has stopped and is gripping the edge of one of the counters, his body transforming.

It is definitely not Peter who turns around.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ********** **

 

“Is this what you had in mind?”

“No,” Mohinder states. The sight of Sylar in Peter’s clothes—blue jeans, untucked button down white shirt and a three-quarter length brown trench—is not what he had in mind by a long shot. “But it will do for now.”

Sylar tilts his head forward and raises an eyebrow perfecting the sly countenance of the cat that caught the canary. “Mind your manners. Now that we’re done playing dress up it would be best if you remember I could do a multitude of vicious things to you.”

“What more could you possibly do?” Mohinder folds his arms across his chest. “Besides taking an assortment of lives, including those I loved, you’re now taking on the lives of those I consider friends. What could possibly be achieved in your attempt to deconstruct my life?”

Sylar’s face falls serious for a second then he emits a belittling laugh and stands up straight. “Careful, you make it sound as if everything I do is about you.”

Mohinder drops his eyes to the floor, embarrassed at the absurd notion he has unintentionally suggested. But he has not lied or exaggerated Sylar’s attentions, the understanding of which raises more questions. He needs to counter Sylar’s provocation without retreating.

“You tell me,” Mohinder keeps his tone firm. “Why do you keep coming back? You have a whole new list of names from Elle, Pinehurst, and the Company. You’re infallible thanks to Claire. There is no reason for you to be here except to finish what you started with my father and nearly completed in the apartment before Peter interrupted.”

Sylar takes a step forward. “And do you remember what I said then?”

Mohinder never forgot the ominous promise Sylar declared. _I’m not done with him yet_. It had been spoken with jovial coldness, his life redefined as a plaything in Sylar’s more than capable hands. Mohinder’s hurt was made worse by the final nail in the coffin of the lie that was Zane. For the smallest diversion of time in his life he had felt like he met someone who got him, someone who made him feel like less of an outsider residing on the fringe of normalcy. He was sure he was the same hope for Zane, until he figured out the truth.

Even during the eventual confrontation and physical blow out everything was overwhelmed by the adrenaline rush. But those words Mohinder had heard loud and clear and he felt the hairs rise on his body and his stomach churn. There was no longer any trace of the man he had befriended. A predator stood in his place, one just getting started.

“Yes, I remember.”

Sylar frowns and taps his right index finger against his right temple. “Stop over thinking it,” he orders. “I can already see you’re going in the wrong direction.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mohinder moves forward.

“It means you’ve already lost the plot,” Sylar snaps. “Why am I here? What makes you different?”

Mohinder shakes his head and throws his arms up, palms to the ceiling. “How should I know? Maybe you’re obsessive compulsive and I’m a tick you can’t complete.”

Sylar laughs and Mohinder’s temper flares, his face flushed with heat.

“You’re not under my skin.” Sylar smirks and lifts his left hand as if to squeeze Mohinder’s shoulder then decides against it. “You’re not even an addiction—though it’s nice to see you still think so highly of yourself while devaluing your own worth; quite the conundrum. The fact of the matter is you’re something else all together.”

Self-deprecation has always come easy to Mohinder. Never measuring up in Chandra’s eyes laid the groundwork, but in many ways it is a trait that has served him well—he is constantly aware he does not have all the answers and accomplishments taste all the sweeter. Still, self-deprecation comes with self-doubt and that has proven to be dangerous, even deadly. And now it sounds as if Sylar is paying him a compliment, but that can’t be right.

“Well now that explains everything,” Mohinder says and turns towards the counter, placing his hands on the surface. His shoulders ache and there is a sharp pain at the center of his back. He tenses his muscles, pushing them in and out, freezing when Sylar approaches him from the right.

“It does,” Sylar says with conviction.

Mohinder meets his gaze. “And how’s that?”

Sylar pauses with thoughtful consideration. “How long have you known I’ve been contacting you as the others?”

“A couple of months.”

“And you’ve obviously said nothing to anyone.”

“I wanted to make sure—,”

“Don’t lie. Try again. And honesty really is the best policy.”

Mohinder draws his lips into a tight line and furrows his brow, turning towards Sylar. “I wanted to figure out what you were up to.”

“All on your own?” Sylar teases; curling his mouth around the pretend pride he purports to feel.

“I’ve done it before,” Mohinder points out sternly.

“Yes.” Sylar smiles, this time more softly. “You have.”

Mohinder is surprised by the change in Sylar’s demeanor. He is still carrying himself with an air of authority but there is a tinge of fondness in the lines that mark his upturned lips and crinkled eyes.

“You weren’t quite so appreciative of it at the time,” Mohinder says curiously.

Sylar tips his head to the side, maintaining eye contact. “I was still in the process of figuring out what you meant. The trouble you proved to be is what saved your life.”

Unclear with what he has heard, Mohinder begins, “I rose in your estimation because I managed to out think—,”

“Yes.”

Raising his right arm in a gesture half attacking, half searching, his mouth is open with the insistence for an explanation on the tip of his tongue. He is halted as Sylar dismissively speaks over him.

“You did the unexpected and in retrospect I had hoped for it—to prove my thoughts right, to know that my theory was sound.”

Sylar begins a slow stroll to the window. Mohinder watches him and takes in the strong lines that form his shape. At ease or on a mission, Sylar has always been imposing to Mohinder’s eyes. Scary and captivating come to mind but which one carries more weight is still to be determined. The implication that Zane may have been more truth than Gabriel or Sylar presses harshly on Mohinder. There is a fine line between what could be fact and what one wishes were. Sylar’s current revelations are not helping ease his mind.

“So I should be flattered by the attention and that you regard me as different?” Mohinder commits to memory the tiny drop in Sylar’s shoulders and the slight bow of his head that precedes him standing up tall and rigid, looking over his right shoulder.

“You are flattered.” Sylar’s sentiment is unwavering. “You’ve kept your suspicions of my visits not just from me but from everyone else—,”

“I’ve told them about you showing up as them, as corroboration,” Mohinder corrects him, striding forward with re-ignited purpose.

“To a point.” Sylar turns and points his left index finger randomly upwards. “But the extent of our conversations? Doubtful. Or else you’d be under twenty-four hour surveillance.”

“What point are you trying to make?”

“That you like being the one between me and them. This position gives you a sense of being. It rewards your outsider status. It tells you that what you thought you felt the first time around was real and worth holding onto, even desperately.”

“Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Gray,” Mohinder retorts. “Now that you’re done analyzing my apparent psychosis, what about you? Care to turn those discerning eyes on yourself?”

“The two of us,” Sylar begins in a reverent manner that pulls Mohinder in while catching him off guard, “are irrevocably tied together.”

Sylar inches closer, leveling Mohinder with an unblinking gaze. His voice is steady, the belief in his words unquestionable. “And I don’t mean that in an ‘I can’t live without you’ way. I mean it as a fact of nature, of life. It is a universal truth. We are bound by the same laws that govern the elements.”

He stops a foot away from Mohinder who in turn angles his head back and folds his arms across his chest, mindful to not look away and give Sylar any satisfaction for his discomfort.

“I’m your nemesis? Your adversary?” Mohinder says with a hint of mockery.

Sylar does not falter. He offers a crooked grin instead. “I can always count on you for the most epic sounding choice of words.”

“This isn’t a game,” Mohinder insists.

“Of course it is,” Sylar counters. “Except the consequences are life and death.”

Mohinder leans forward and swears, “I will stop you. I will do whatever I have to, until my final breath.”

“Exactly,” Sylar excitedly says through clenched teeth and grabs both of Mohinder’s shoulders. “Don’t you see,_ that’s_ what I’m talking about!”

Mohinder steps back, shrugging out of Sylar’s hold with hostility. He unfolds his arms and readies himself to shove Sylar back with enough force to surely break his back and by himself some time but Sylar already has his right hand raised, laying an invisible hold on Mohinder’s body. Mohinder grimaces as he fights the telekinetic bindings.

“Now that your head is finally in the game, Mohinder, how about we up the ante?”

Confusion and panic stop Mohinder’s resistance momentarily. In horror he watches Sylar move back and morph until Mohinder is staring into his own eyes.

“My god,” Mohinder whispers disbelievingly.

“Uncanny, isn’t it?” Sylar says. “Though I need to work on the accent a bit. Tell me, is there anything you’ve ever wanted to do to yourself?”

“Fuck you,” Mohinder seethes, still in shock.

“That can be arranged for another time.” Sylar looks down at his new form and lines dent his forehead in thoughtfulness. Without a word he shrugs off the trench coat, folding it in half and holding it in his left hand. With his right hand he undoes the top two buttons of his shirt then makes a wiping motion across the front of his shirt making a paisley pattern appear on the material. He looks up and meets Mohinder’s shocked gaze. “There, that’s better,” Sylar says with a spot on mimic of Mohinder’s accent.

“What are you going to do?” Mohinder again tries to throw off the telekinetic hold keeping him in place.

“If I told you it would ruin all the fun,” Sylar says with faux concern and breaks into a huge grin.

“You’re mad!” Mohinder spits out.

“No, just creative,” Sylar clarifies and aggressively taps his finger at the center of Mohinder’s chest.

Mohinder’s anger forces his breathing to go deeper and be more laboured. It ratchets his shoulders up and down and he bites back obscenities behind tight lips until he is more acceptably calm. “No one is going to believe you’re me.”

“Are you sure about that? Can you say that with one hundred percent certainty?”

It is a legitimate question and Mohinder knows the crushing answer.

Sylar takes advantage of Mohinder’s silence. “Just because you didn’t take the bait doesn’t mean they won’t. And considering some of the questionable things you’ve done, I could do some serious damage.”

Mohinder cringes and swallows loudly. “Why are you doing this?”

Sylar steps closer and brushes a stray curl back from Mohinder’s face then lowers his hand to cup the side of Mohinder’s neck. He tilts his head down and to the side, holding Mohinder’s gaze, and says, “The only person who truly knows you—and still believes in you—is me. And it’s not in spite of everything, but _because_ of it.”

For a few seconds that sidestep the restraints of time and dip into endlessness the fight goes out of Mohinder and he feels himself on the precipice of a freefall. Whether he believes Sylar or not isn’t the issue. Sylar believes it and that makes Mohinder the most important thing in Sylar’s life. The realization turns his stomach, a predicament not helped by the wayward thought that Sylar is right. Their lives have been tied up since before they ever set eyes on each other. Sylar took Mohinder’s father and brought Mohinder halfway around the world. They have been circling each other ever since.

Sylar’s hand is hot and uncomfortable against his neck. Mohinder tenses, the rush to resist rising again. If Sylar wants this battle, Mohinder is in.

Sylar smiles at the contraction of Mohinder’s muscles and drops his hand. He walks by Mohinder, loosening the invisible hold so that Mohinder can turn on the spot and watch him head to the door. Sylar stops and faces him, putting his hands in his jean pockets, the trench still crossed over his left forearm.

“Consider the gauntlet thrown. The challenge decreed. Take your time and _think_—where would I go in this body? What would I do? Should you follow or unleash a pre-emptive assault?” Sylar smiles and nods. “The possibilities are mind blowing, don’t you agree?”

Turning on his heels he leaves the lab and Mohinder is forced to stay where he is and listen to Sylar escape, his jaw clenched as he squirms and groans, until suddenly the hold is gone. He races to the hallway, looking left and right, but Sylar is gone.

“Damn it,” Mohinder mutters his frustrations while racing back into the lab.

He grabs his shoulder bag from the chair of the desk in the corner of the room and searches for his cellphone. He starts to dial Peter’s number but the first ring makes him hesitate. He holds the phone out in front of him and stares at Peter’s name lit up on the screen. Sylar would expect him to call Peter immediately, wouldn’t he? It is either the right move or will only prove to waste valuable time.

He hangs up the phone, dropping his arm to his side. Closing his eyes he takes a deep breath. If he wants to stop Sylar he has to out think him. That means there is no time for knee-jerk actions and reactions. He has to play this smartly.

Opening his eyes he looks at the open doorway and exhales.


End file.
